Saturday started off with me trying to count the drinks I had the night before – I had an initial count that was low, and would actually remember them as the day went on, like they were lousy quarterbacks that skulked about the history of the New Orleans Saints. (“Oh, yes, someone poured a Miller Light for me! I never drink that! … Billy Joe Tolliver!”) Funnily enough, I think I hissed at the memory of some of the drinks more. There is the spirtual pain of seeing John Fourcade start the season under center, and then the very real pain of several drinks that were stronger than anyone currently on the Saints, except for Jeremy Shockey (I didn’t try any absinthe).

Here’s how bin Laden has ruined America: I assume I can’t bring anything on the plane with me that has to do with personal grooming – in fact, my hair gel was found by Homeland Security and discarded. On the other hand, some of the DHS agents this week look pretty hot, so nobody question my patriotism any time soon. I therefore didn’t try to bring any ibuprofen, because it was going to be in a container that was greater than three ounces. In retrospect, I should have just downed 40 of them before flying and try to cover myself for the whole weekend, but that’s another story. So yeah – I was unable to take some painkillers before going to bed, and had my first hangover since I was in my late 20s. I could have received some from the hotel front desk if it was “that” kind of a hotel, but, well… yeah. You might think that I needed a hangover like I needed a hole in my head, but as discussed yesterday with the strip being shut down directly outside, I could have had both.

(It all actually only went away when I had a vodka/cranberry thing late Saturday night, so trying the hair of the dog that bit me really did work. Amazing. What other wisdom is there in clichéd sayings?? Also, I know that Alt-130 is the messed-up “e” now, so expect that to be a recurring character, so to speak, in future blog entries.)

The best idea I could personally come up with to cure a mild hangover is naturally getting onto a roller coaster, and luckily, New York New York provides for just that. Across the street was a mess of arcade games, and after lunch, I was able to play some Centipede with my buddy Fodge, and his wife. The Gameworks is on the card reader setup, so while he was trying to get it to go, he accidentally put nine credits into the Centipede. We also did some virtual bowling. I love that a $15,000 bowling lane with simulated results was developed. This should be the next market taken by the people who did Rock Band: after having delivered the experience of playing in a band at home, plastic bowling would also be great. The side benefit is that everyone’s french fries would be better, as nobody has ever had bad fries at a bowling alley.

By this time, Fodge had to get ready for the wedding. My friend Greg called while I was walking the two (I think?) (I actually just looked it up, it’s 1.9 miles) miles back to the hotel. Greg was a few drinks ahead of me, thanks to being in opposite time zones, but he demanded that I fly out to Atlanta during what would be this weekend. Greg, I will, shortly! I need to see Gerrit anyway and shoot a movie next year! Greg, I am asking you to act in a movie in front of all these people to embarrass you into accepting.

I got back to the hotel and took another nap – apparently I have the stamina of an 80-year old, but I’m not going to lie here, lying about Vegas comes way afterwards. The wedding was going to be at seven, and I was determined to get a cab.

I was also determined not to dress nicer than the groom. The wedding was at their hotel room (which was amazingly nice) and I was led to believe that Matt was going to be wearing shorts and a baseball cap – I grabbed my favorite pair of jeans and a button-down, black shirt. I was prepared for anything: being lied to about the expected dress, not being able to find a cab and having to huff it, finally giving into the endless stream of guys who give cards for callgirls, being thrown into a room with an angry pitboss on account for general smugness.

I arrived at the wedding just in the nick of time. It was great. Fodge did a wonderful job as the best man, and there was a lot of food and other pleasantries. Fodge, Luddy, Keith and I sat down to play some euchre afterwards, and it was just like old times, just like being a freshman in college. Euchre really never gets old. When I play cards, or eat, I don’t like to have anything in my pockets, so I put my phone and glasses on the table.

My phone is a flip phone, and was free with a year’s extension through T-mobile. It is also purple, because I run caltrops.com. This did not go over well! It really got out of hand within a couple minutes, and I was being aggressively mocked for owning a purple phone, all by people I did not really know! But it was very funny (and fun) and I think my argument was essentially that it would be gray to the colorblind.

I don’t remember anything else that happened that night.

***

The next day was spent at the sports book, where I put money on the New Orleans Saints. Guess how that went? Reggie Bush blew out his knee and the game was never in doubt after the first few drives. The Saints have disappointed me in every single way, in the last 30 years, but I had never actually lost money on them. They were getting three points, and lost 30-7. I would not have had it any other way, har har har.

That’s essentially it, except for successfully avoiding the lizard men at Denver International Airport on the way back. I’d say, “I can’t wait to return to Las Vegas,” but it has a way of making me intend to be back, regardless of my intentions. Right on.